I'm a lover, not a fighter
by Sweetloot
Summary: "Tucker punches his pillow, it doesn't make trying to fall asleep any easier. He wishes he had believed Wash then, wishes he hadn't accused him of being paranoid when he knew he had a good reason to be, wishes he had been a better soldier, a better fighter, wishes he had just gone out into that fucking battlefield and dragged Wash off of it. But he was a lover, not a fighter."


(Written before Season 12, after the release of the Season 12 trailer)

* * *

_'I'm a lover, not a fighter.'_

Tucker snorts to himself at the stray thought floating around inside his head. It was quiet at the Rebel base, nearing the time when all the other soldiers were trickling off to their bunks, getting ready to drag themselves out of bed in the morning to start their training all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat. Different day, same bullshit.

Only now it was Tucker giving those orders.

_'I'm a lover, not a fighter.'_

He didn't know why that particular phrase decided to sneak up on him tonight, but it refused to get out of his head. He checks over the chambers in his rifle again, making sure it's properly clean. His swords sits unassumingly under his pillow.

_'I'm a lover, not a fighter.'_

He remembers he used to say that a lot. He can't even remember when he first started using that line. Hell, can't even remember where he got it from. Maybe it was from that old television show his grandma used to watch on her shitty black and white TV. (_'Touch that remote, boy, and I'll pop your hand.'_) Or maybe he started saying it when some asshole tried to pick a fight with him in the school parking lot. ('_What's wrong, Lavernius, you chicken shit?'_) Or maybe it was because his dad had said the exact opposite before he slammed the front door shut, getting swept away in a war Tucker swore he'd never let himself see.

Whatever the case, he used to say that a lot.

Not anymore.

Sure, he still thought of himself as a lover, even if most of what used to come out of his mouth was just the hollow bragging of a kid trying to find a way to fit into his own skin. He's still a lover, always will be, he's just finding it hard to find something to love nowadays, is all.

Tucker finishes rechecking his rifle before leaning it against the wall by the head of his bunk, ('_Always have a weapon within reach, Tucker. A gun won't do you any good if it's too far away for you to use it.' 'Wash, you're one paranoid fucker, you know that?')_, then starts peeling off his armor, evidence of the day's training covering most of the torso in the form of black soot. His squad was getting better at aiming grenades, he'll give them that, but they're getting extra laps for not checking to see if the damn thing was live or not. They didn't have enough grenades to be wasting them like that.

Once done, he piles the armor in a corner, but still well within reach should he need it. He makes a mental note to clean it tomorrow. He had just sat down on his bunk when he was reminded of what else his squad was getting good at: hand-to-hand combat. Damn, his back was gonna kill him in the morning.

He had been training with Kimball in hand-to-hand combat for the last few weeks, determined he'd have something more than 'throw a punch and hope it lands' to teach his squad after he got done pushing them through the obstacle course his squad had affectionately called 'Captain Tucker's Cave of Hell', he never told them it wasn't his design, just made them run it again when they complained.

Kimball had told him that he had good form _'for some who looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over'_. He never told her Wash had just started teaching him how to block a punch and how to escape a headlock before...everything happened.

Tucker kicks the too itchy blanket off and rolls over, it was too hot for it anyway.

Tucker wishes Wash could see him now, if only to rub it in his smug, ex-freelancer face, that he could take things seriously, when he wanted to. Tucker and Wash used to argue a lot, not like how him and Church used to argue where Church would tell him to do something and Tucker would tell him to fuck off and do it himself and that he wasn't his maid. When him and Wash used to argue, they somehow found out they had a talent for getting under one another's skin, for finding the metaphorical cracks in each other's armor and _digging_ until the other gave up or they drew blood. It's not like they really meant what they said to each other, but the scars were there all the same. But the point was, they said a lot of shit to each other. He doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about one of the last full conversations they ever had with each other:

Tucker and Simmons had been arguing about the stupid fucking 'chore wheel' that the overzealous maroon fuck had been going on about when Wash had walked up behind him, asking him why he wasn't running drills. After telling Wash how running drills was not good for his nipple-play kink, Wash took off his helmet, and pinched the bridge of his nose like he needed a physical outlet to show his frustrations. Tucker was just glad he chose not to show it by punching him in the face.

"Why do you refuse to take these things seriously?"

Tucker took off his helmet then too. Eye rolls didn't work so well when the other party couldn't see them. "Why can't you just let us do our thing?"

Wash just huffed in that irritating way of his when he thought someone was being extra stupid on purpose, but what came out of his mouth sounded surprisingly sincere. "I'm trying to make sure you're the best. That you're ready for anything."

Tucker's heart had clenched stupidly at that. Tucker knew what he meant by 'anything', and he didn't like the thought. He had a flash of when his father left and never came back, of digging Flowers' grave, of looking beside him one day to crack a joke only to find Church not there. No, he didn't like the sound of that, but it wasn't like he was going to start blubbering like a goddamn child, so he did what he always did, and mustered up all of the false bravado he had:

"Why? Blue Team was just fine with being mediocre until you came along. What the fuck are you worried about?"

A look of unease passed over Wash's face, like he had forgotten his helmet wasn't there to shield it from view. "It's just a feeling I, I can't explain it."

Tucker punches his pillow, it doesn't make trying to fall asleep any easier. He wishes he had believed Wash then, wishes he hadn't accused him of being paranoid when he knew he had a good reason to be, wishes he had been a better soldier, a better fighter, wishes he had just gone out into that fucking battlefield and _dragged _Wash off of it.

But he was a lover, not a fighter.

Until now.

_Driven._

That's what Kimball had called it. Yeah, he's driven, but what other choice does he have?

Church had left, fucked off to who knows where, only to hide like the fucking coward he was when he got back. Oh, he thought Tucker didn't see him, but he did. He saw the brief flashes of pale blue light that would flicker into existence over Carolina's shoulder, only to disappear whenever someone entered the room. Tucker would have confronted Carolina about it if he wasn't sure she'd punch his teeth in for accusing her of harboring him, even though they would both know the statement was true. She'd still punch him on principle though, and Tucker was fond of his teeth, thank you. Tucker may be getting stronger, but there was no way in hell he could take on Carolina, so he'd let Church hide, for now, would keep his return secret from Caboose, for now, but they'd have a talk eventually, preferably one where Church had a body again and it involved more punching him in the face than words.

Wash was gone, captured (_'He' not fucking dead, Felix, shut the fuck up!')_ because he cared too much about a half-formed band of pseudo-soldiers to let them get riddled full of bullet holes. So he stayed behind in the hopes that they all made it out, only they all didn't make it out.

Sarge and Donut might have been Reds, but what the fuck did 'Red' or 'Blue' matter anymore when no one else cared what color your armor was when they all bleed the same? Tucker always sat with Caboose in the mess hall, even when he wasn't in the mood to hear about what 'super cool robot' he'd been talking to that day. Simmons and Grif always sat together, so Tucker didn't miss the way their heads would shoot up whenever someone called out 'Sargent' or when they overheard Kimball talking in Spanish, the same way they never missed Tucker's abortive turns, like he was going to make a quip only to realize the intended target wasn't there. They all had been disappointed when Felix had said he was going to take them to see 'Doc' when they first landed only to be met with a 5'3" tall ball of fire pretending to be a woman with sharp cheek bones and an even sharper tongue. Tucker had been so disappointed that it wasn't who he thought it was that he had forgotten to make his usual pass at anything breathing, as Church had once described it. Tucker may have found their Doc's medical practices questionably, but even he worried about what had happened to the pacifist.

So, yeah, he was driven, but when you're pushed up against a wall and told _'here's your squad, don't let them fucking die'_, what else are you supposed to do?

Tucker was just about to fall asleep when there was a tapping at his door, so light he almost didn't hear it. He groaned to himself, but slipped off the bed, sure he knew who would be waiting on the other side.

"Hi, Tucker."

Sometimes, Tucker wishes he wasn't right.

"Hey, Caboose."

Caboose wasn't wearing his armor, someone having finally told him that he didn't need to wear it to sleep. Instead, he wore a pair of loose fitting, gray sweatpants and a dark blue T-shirt. He was barefoot, just like Tucker was, and his feet shuffled uneasily across the concrete floor.

"Um, yeah, so I couldn't sleep so I decided to go to the kitchen to see if the orange guy had left any cookies but I saw something...weird."

Tucker held back a sigh. He was being bothered at who-fucking-knows-o-clock at night when Caboose probably just saw his shadow or something. He didn't say that though, just held back another sigh and asked, "What did you see, Caboose?"

"Well, um, I thought I saw Church."

Oh, well shit.

Tucker was opening his mouth to say something, more than likely a bold faced lie, when Caboose continued.

"But that's crazy. I mean, he couldn't be here, he never said hello. No, no, wait he never said goodbye so does that mean he could be here without having to say hello? Or maybe-"

This was a train wreck. Fuck Church, just fuck him."Caboose, Caboose!"

"Yes." Caboose looked down at the shorter soldier, confusion clearly etched on his features.

Seriously, Tucker was going to punch Church, hard. In the dick. "Church isn't here."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

It was silent for a while, just the sound of Caboose's shuffling feet. Caboose peered around Tucker's shoulder, appearing to be looking for something. "Is Washington here yet?"

_'Yet.'_

Caboose may get on Tucker's very last nerve, but the guy was so innocent, so naive, that it made hating him difficult. He said 'yet' like it was a guarantee that Wash would come back to them, like there was no way that wouldn't be the case.

Caboose was still looking over Tucker's shoulder into his room, though Tucker had no idea why Caboose would think Wash would be in _Tucker's_ room of all places. When Caboose tried to get passed Tucker to see for himself, obviously impatient with his lack of response, Tucker placed a hand on the taller man's shoulder, gently pushing him back into the hall. It was a good thing Caboose was a pretty easy going guy, otherwise Tucker was sure Caboose could have gotten past him easily if he wanted too. Dude was built like a tank.

"No, Caboose, Wash isn't here either. Those bad guy's took him, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, those guys weren't very nice."

"No shit."

Caboose looked like he wanted to say something else, but hesitated. It was really getting late now and Tucker was starting to feel the day's strain settling into his bones. "Just spit it out, Caboose."

He did, almost immediately. "Can I sleep with you tonight?"

Tucker was tired and did not want to deal with this shit. "Fine, but no cuddling or I swear I'll kick you."

Caboose just smiled. "Okay."

Caboose used to have these sleepover's with Church, for which Church would complain and Tucker would laugh, but Tucker doesn't laugh now, just goes to his locker and grabs an extra blanket and some pillows and tosses them on the floor. There was no way in hell he was sharing a bed with Caboose, the dude would probably roll over and kill him, and with the guy's track record it was a high possibility.

Caboose didn't complain though, just started to make something that looked weirdly similar to a nest and settled down, clutching a spare pillow to his chest.

Tucker turned off the light and collapsed into bed. He was about to fall asleep when Caboose spoke up.

"Tucker?"

"Fucking hell, yes Caboose?" Tucker sighed.

"When do we go get Washington?"

"Soon, Caboose, soon." Actually, Tucker didn't fucking know, but it was best not to tell Caboose that.

That seemed to be a good enough answer for the other soldier because it wasn't a minute later before Tucker could hear soft snores coming from the pile of blankets and pillows beside his bed.

So, yeah, Tucker may not be the smartest, or the bravest. He may not be the best fighter, or a perfect soldier, but he was driven, and that would just have to do.

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Thank you for reading, comments are always appreciated.


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